Politics
Best: Dick Cheney refusing to go gently into the good night
Worst: the 300 plus days of the Obama administration
Celebritude
Best: The death of Michael Jackson.
Worst: Having to wait as long as we did for that fucking freak to move on
Consumer Technology
Best: Amazon's Kindle
Worst: anything produced by those bastards at Brookstone
Day of 2009
Best: March 30
Worst: August 29
Automotive
Best: Bentley Mulsanne
Worst: Jeep Compass - brand destruction at its worst - front wheel drive? Really?!?
Toy
Best: Nerf N-Force Maverick Sword
Worst: Zhu Zhu Pets
Coffee
Best: Starbucks Venti drip
Worst: the crap SBD's mom served on Christmas Day
Television Show
Best: Fringe
Worst: Glee - enough with young people who want to sing
Shoes
Best: Allen Edmonds
Worst: Birkenstocks - goddamned things don't stay on your feet
Playa
Best: Tiger Woods
Worst: David Letterman
Citrus
Best: Clementines
Worst: Tangerine
Scandal
Best: Climate Fraud
Worst: Whores for Health Care Legislation
Kids
Best: Mine
Worst: Yours
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Dow Performance - Blech!
Chart of the Day:As the zeros decade concludes, today's chart presents the price performance of the Dow for each decade since 1900. So how do the 10 years just passed rank? As today's chart illustrates, the performance of the Dow from the close of 1999
through 2009 was the second worst performance on record. Only the Great Depression decade of the 1930s was worse. The current zeros decade also shares an unfortunate outcome with the 1930s in being a decade during which the Dow actually ended lower than where it started. Happy new decade.
Friday, December 25, 2009
The Christmas Family Tree
Walter Russel Meade:
It’s sometimes hard to know which pieces of Christmas come from the Bible (shepherds, manger, baby, parents, angels, wise men), what comes from paganism (date, trees, mistletoe, lights, logs, presents), what comes from pious legends(animals, crowns for wise men, one of them being black), what from medieval custom (manger scenes, carol singing), what comes from sentimental Victorian literature (named reindeer, flying sleigh, Santa Claus as a fat and jolly elf, Tiny Tim) and what comes from modern commercialism (dreaming of a white Christmas, Rudolf, the little drummer boy, the grinch).
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Christmas Eve Story, part 12
Children are nestled all snug in their bed . . . While dad secured another beer from the shed 
Sent from my iPhone
Sent from my iPhone
Christmas Eve Story, part 9 and two thirds
A bit of Scrooge as the whipped cream is prepared and pecan pie warmed 
Sent from my iPhone
Sent from my iPhone
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Today's Small Act of Insurgency
**
At Toys R Us, took a few Smurf plushies and mixed them in with the first run Avatar toys.
**
At Toys R Us, took a few Smurf plushies and mixed them in with the first run Avatar toys.
**
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Zhu Zhu Petals
Sydney Brillo Daughter has been rather explicit that Santa Claus could maintain his status as an actual living entity were he to deposit the following toy below Sydney Brillo Christmas Tree.
One of these beauties, wrapped just so, perhaps with an accompanying length of 4 inch PVC piping as a habitat, and with enough parental ohhing and ahhing upon unwrapping, along with a weepy story about how they are clearly escapees from the Island of Misfit toys, but true representatives of their species as compared to those charlatans Mr. Quiggles et al, could present a perfect opportunity for a weepy Christmas fable about giving mercy and kindness to even the lowliest of stuffed animals. Or it could be a freakn' disaster of epic proportions. And that's what makes Christmas morning so grand.
That, patrons, is Mr. Squiggles Hamster of the clan Zhu Zhu, a new species of battery operated Rodentia.
The benefit of having a Zhu Zhu pet appears to be that, as compared to a live hamster, they are slightly larger, fluffier, softer, cuter and they do not pee in your hand or puncture your thumb with little rabid teeth. Also, unlike real hamsters, they can be pressed quite hard about the head, body and nose without breaking and which instructs the creature to run tricks through an array of hamster playsets (sold separately), which are slightly larger versions of the old Hamster Habitats so fondly remembered from the 70s. Again, the advantage appears to be that one does not have to upend the Zhu Zhu habitats to dislodge small bits of feces and flush them with ammonia in order to kill the small colonies of plague and knock down the overpowering stench of rodent urine. There's also the small matter of not having to deal with fleas.
Now, Mr. Squiggles Hamster and his close relatives, Num Nums, Chunk, and Pipsqueak, are the number one requested toy this season and as such are sold out. Well, clarification: they are sold out at the MSRP of approximately $9.99. The recently unemployed appear to have used their entire severance packages to scoop up all available supplies of the little robots and are selling them on eBay and Craigs List under outrageous markups, which for SBD is one penny more than the MSRP of $9.99.
After an exhaustive five minutes of browsing online on Amazon and Toys R Us followed by a solid thirty minute search through the plush stacks at a local MomandPop toy store, SBD could not locate an iteration of Mr. Squiggles Hamster. Hoops erected by the media, by other parents, by guilt and by the Joneses presented themselves. But SBD did not and will not jump through them. But Zhu Zhu are out there nonetheless and some type of action is required.
There are two conflicting motivations here. First, SBD wants to help Sydney Brillo Daughter maintain her tenuous hold on childhood by proving her belief in Santa. She's not going to just believe on her own, of course. It's quite simple: Santa exists when the things you have explicitly asked him for show up on Christmas morning, regardless of what that knowitall little Miss Bitch Sadie in Miss Lawrence's class says about how Santa is really your parents. It's all about feeding the faith gene and building up the ability to maintain conceptual structures that strenghten the human spirit and maintain a sense of magic, for magic equals possibility and immortality in the face of compounding reason and reality. Bottomline: life sucks without fantasy. Zhu Zhu pets, unfortunately, confirm the existence of Santa.
The second motivation for SBD is that these damn Zhu Zhu pets exists to demonstrate to the world that Sydney Brillo Duodenum does not love his daughter. For every jackhole sitting home from his job next Wednesday or Thursday biting his fingers to stubs waiting for the promised expedited package from the eBay seller in Hot Springs, AR, there is a Sydney Brillo Duodenum who refuses to participate, who is too lazy to check another toy store, and who refuses to deal with the lady on eBay in Poughkeepsie who made a killing on limited edition WebKinz two years ago. Certainly, most of Sydney Brillo Daughter's little friends will slide the banisters of their well appointed homes and find below their Christmas tree a Mr. Squiggles, NumbNuts, Chump the Hamster or Pimpsqueak, or all four. A crowning jewell of parental perfection. SBD is not perfect, though. By all rights, he's a loser. And cheap. Also, there is the matter of devoting more of Sydney Brillo Duodenum's budget on toys, quite frankly, to meeting the expectations of Sydney Brillo Junior on Christmas morning for the simple and obvious reason that Sydney Brillo Duodenum can have fun with the Sony PSP Gran Turismo Package, not to mention the World's Greatest Shelby Slot Car Racetrack set from Restoration Hardware, just as well as Junior can. Zhu Zhu pets? Not so much fun.
So, there shall be no Zhu Zhu pet under the tree.
But what is a hamster, really? Well, it's essentially a cute, non-greasy rat.
So, while pawing the plushies at the toy store, Sydney Brillo Duodenum found these little rascals shoved to the back of a shelf, hiding under a pile of Ugly Dolls.
One of these beauties, wrapped just so, perhaps with an accompanying length of 4 inch PVC piping as a habitat, and with enough parental ohhing and ahhing upon unwrapping, along with a weepy story about how they are clearly escapees from the Island of Misfit toys, but true representatives of their species as compared to those charlatans Mr. Quiggles et al, could present a perfect opportunity for a weepy Christmas fable about giving mercy and kindness to even the lowliest of stuffed animals. Or it could be a freakn' disaster of epic proportions. And that's what makes Christmas morning so grand.
A Tough Decade for NASDAQ
As the first decade of the new millennium rapidly comes to a close, today's chart takes a look back at the decade that was. Today's chart begins shortly after the stock market as well as the nation was partying like it's 1999 (i.e. dot-com boom). The proverbial punch bowl was taken away early in 2000 and the Nasdaq suffered its 2 1/2 year dot-com bust. The market eventually bottomed and began a five-year rally thanks in part some infamous financial innovations (i.e. Ninja loans -- No Income, No Job, and no Assets). Then as it became apparent that those financial innovations weren't quite as innovative as first hoped, the system went into near meltdown. Over the past nine months, the Nasdaq has been rallying (albeit at a pace that is slowing over time) and is currently testing resistance. All in all, a tough decade.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
AP: Climate Science Is a Butterface, but AP Would Still Do Her
After an "exhaustive review," the AP declares there is no conspiracy surrounding the "stolen" climate alchemists' e-mails.
Hmmm. Perhaps if the AP had assigned the eleven investigative reporters that they assigned to Sarah Palin's book, they may have come to a different "exhaustive" conclusion.
AP IMPACT: Science Not Faked, but Not Pretty
By Seth Borenstein, Raphael Satter And Malcolm Ritter, Associated Press WritersLONDON – E-mails stolen from climate scientists show they stonewalled skeptics and discussed hiding data — but the messages don't support claims that the science of global warming was faked, according to an exhaustive review by The Associated Press.
The 1,073 e-mails examined by the AP show that scientists harbored private doubts, however slight and fleeting, even as they told the world they were certain about climate change. However, the exchanges don't undercut the vast body of evidence showing the world is warming because of man-made greenhouse gas emissions.
[...]
The AP studied all the e-mails for context, with five reporters reading and rereading them — about 1 million words in total.
Hmmm. Perhaps if the AP had assigned the eleven investigative reporters that they assigned to Sarah Palin's book, they may have come to a different "exhaustive" conclusion.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Hung By The Chimney with EOD Protection Gloves
With a little tinkering, this would make a great stocking stuffer . . .
Exploding Chewing Gum Blows Off College Student's Jaw
A chemistry student in the Ukraine was found dead with his jaw blown off by what is believed to be exploding chewing gum, according to reports.
The 25-year-old's disfigured remains were discovered at his parent's home in the northern Ukrainian city of Konotop, reports in the Eastern European country said.
The young man, who studied at Kiev Polytechnic Institute, was working at a computer late on Saturday when the alleged explosion happened.
"A loud pop was heard from the student's room," the ukranews.com Web site said, citing an aide to the city's police chief.
"When his relatives entered the room, they saw that the lower part of the young man's face had been blown off."
A forensic examination established that the chewing gum was covered with an unidentified chemical substance, thought to be some type of explosive material.
The student apparently had a bizarre habit of chewing gum after dipping it into citric acid, Russian news agency Ria Novosti said.
Officers found both citric acid packets and a similar-looking unidentified substance, believed to be some kind of explosive material, on a table near the body, the agency continued.
Investigators suspect that the student simply confused the packets and put gum covered with explosive material into his mouth.
Forensic experts were to travel from Kiev to investigate the substance, as local authorities feared it may explode if transported.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright
A brief note on our fallen national hero, Mr. Tiger Woods. Really just a question.
Mr. Woods is, without a doubt, prior to his coitus interuptus, the most famous sports figure in this country and arguably throughout the anglosphere where the great golf courses are carved. He is - was - loved and revered and adored and admired and worshipped for his almost mystical skills with a club and little white ball. Young, serious, precise, technical and monomaniacal in his pursuit of the game, he was expected to dominate the sport for the next 25 years. A true post-racial representative of the new America.
That is all in the shitter now. His career lies on the floor of a Vegas hotel room like a day old yellowing cum-filled scumbag.
Today's compounding news: his antics have sent his mother-in-law to the emergency room. A new low.
So the question is this:
Where the fuck were all of Tiger's friends, agents, and lackies while he was out and about banging and whoring it up with 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, or, as Drudge has helpfully detailed, today's 11 kinky little kittens? Are we to believe that not one person in Tiger's circle of confidence told him that he was seriously jeopardizing the Gatorade, General Motors, Titleist, American Express, Nike, Frosted Flakes, TAG Heuer, Electronic Arts, and Gillette endorsement lottery? Did he have no one i s his life to tell him he was dishonoring his wife and children and soiling his soul? On what fucking planet are Tiger's confidantes and lackies and closest bestest bros living that none of them told him to pick one girl, just one, buy her nice stuff to keep her quiet and bang her out on the QT somewhere in the Caribbean? Eleven skanks? Eleven? Was Tiger just too convincing? Did the conversation go something like this:
This is the critical question we must all ask ourselves: who's got our backs? Who is keeping an eye on us and who do we have in our lives who we can trust to say, "Dude, you cannot go to eleven. Nuh, uh. Sorry. Dial it back before you lose it all."
Before this year is over, we should all have a scold in our pocket, in our rolodex, or on speed dial.
Mr. Woods is, without a doubt, prior to his coitus interuptus, the most famous sports figure in this country and arguably throughout the anglosphere where the great golf courses are carved. He is - was - loved and revered and adored and admired and worshipped for his almost mystical skills with a club and little white ball. Young, serious, precise, technical and monomaniacal in his pursuit of the game, he was expected to dominate the sport for the next 25 years. A true post-racial representative of the new America.
That is all in the shitter now. His career lies on the floor of a Vegas hotel room like a day old yellowing cum-filled scumbag.
Today's compounding news: his antics have sent his mother-in-law to the emergency room. A new low.
So the question is this:
Where the fuck were all of Tiger's friends, agents, and lackies while he was out and about banging and whoring it up with 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, or, as Drudge has helpfully detailed, today's 11 kinky little kittens? Are we to believe that not one person in Tiger's circle of confidence told him that he was seriously jeopardizing the Gatorade, General Motors, Titleist, American Express, Nike, Frosted Flakes, TAG Heuer, Electronic Arts, and Gillette endorsement lottery? Did he have no one i s his life to tell him he was dishonoring his wife and children and soiling his soul? On what fucking planet are Tiger's confidantes and lackies and closest bestest bros living that none of them told him to pick one girl, just one, buy her nice stuff to keep her quiet and bang her out on the QT somewhere in the Caribbean? Eleven skanks? Eleven? Was Tiger just too convincing? Did the conversation go something like this:
Tiger's Ass Licking Buddy: Um, Tiger, I mean Mr. Woods, dude, you may want to chill it with the ho's dude. I can't like keep track of all the names and cities and word might get back to the Mrs., you know what I mean?
Tiger: Well, here's how I see it. You see, most blokes will be playing at 10. You’re on 10, all the way up, all the way up...Where can you go from there? Nowhere. What I do, is if I need that extra push over the cliff...Eleven. One louder, if you know what I mean.
This is the critical question we must all ask ourselves: who's got our backs? Who is keeping an eye on us and who do we have in our lives who we can trust to say, "Dude, you cannot go to eleven. Nuh, uh. Sorry. Dial it back before you lose it all."
Before this year is over, we should all have a scold in our pocket, in our rolodex, or on speed dial.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Today's Liberal Poetry Mash-up
What happens when you combine President That Never Was Al Gore’s untitled 21 lines of “beautiful, evocative and disturbing” genius from the first chapter of his newest book predicting the end of the world with President Obama’s "Pop," written when he was 19 and wrestling with some deep dark secrets involving his grandfather?
Pop the Shepherd Cries
Snow glides from the mountain
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
A floating continent disappears
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
In midnight sun
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Ice fathers floods for a season
Things have been easy for me;
One thin September soon
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
A hard rain comes quickly
I'm sure he's unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
Then dirt is parched
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Here are your tools!
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he's still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He's so unhappy, to which he replies...
"Unknown creatures
Take their leave, unmourned
Horsemen ready their stirrups."
But I don't care anymore, cause
For the lightning's celebration
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I've been saving; I'm laughing,
The bell of the city,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
On the hill is rung
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Neptune's bones, dissolve
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Passion seeks heroes and friends,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I've got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
Vapors rise as
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
The hour of choosing has arrived,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink*, my
Fever settles on an acid sea
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; 'cause
Kindling is placed in the forest
I see my face, framed within
Pop's black-framed glasses
And know he's laughing too.
The shepherd cries.
Snow glides from the mountain
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
A floating continent disappears
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
In midnight sun
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Ice fathers floods for a season
Things have been easy for me;
One thin September soon
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
A hard rain comes quickly
I'm sure he's unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
Then dirt is parched
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Here are your tools!
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he's still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He's so unhappy, to which he replies...
"Unknown creatures
Take their leave, unmourned
Horsemen ready their stirrups."
But I don't care anymore, cause
For the lightning's celebration
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I've been saving; I'm laughing,
The bell of the city,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
On the hill is rung
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Neptune's bones, dissolve
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Passion seeks heroes and friends,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I've got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
Vapors rise as
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
The hour of choosing has arrived,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink*, my
Fever settles on an acid sea
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; 'cause
Kindling is placed in the forest
I see my face, framed within
Pop's black-framed glasses
And know he's laughing too.
The shepherd cries.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Excuse me, ma'am?!
Ma'am Barbara Boxer, Chairman, Senate Environment and Public Works Committee
"You call it 'Climategate'; I call it 'E-mail-theft-gate."
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
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